The Somatics
by screentone
Summary: After Eurus is taken away, Sherlock and Mycroft will never be the same. Their world has been torn apart and they are both left with an empty feeling. What could ever fill the hollowness that remains?
1. 1

_**Rated T** for later content showing drug use, sexuality, and self-harming behaviors. _

Young Sherlock and Mycroft go to their new counselor's office for the first time. Six months have passed since their sister was taken away.

* * *

"William?" the doe-eyed counselor prompted the boy sitting in front of her.

The boy lowered his eyes and dark tresses swung down, blocking his sight even further. Hearing that name directed toward him caused irrational anger, yet he knew it was irrational. William was his name was it not? He has been called that name for years, so why did it bother him now? He was unsure. In fact, it seemed a general state of uncertainty was enveloping him as of late.

"Your mother mentioned that you might prefer another name, is that right?" The counselor used a gentle voice to coax him from his thoughts. His mother had also told her that starting conversations has been difficult since his sister left the home.

The boy's heart raced as the questioned finished. Loud, pulsing blood made speaking aloud impossible right now. His face grew hot as he felt ashamed, but he buried his emotions too far for his face to reflect them. Through years of interacting with strangers, he had learned that not presenting any emotion often produces better social response than presenting an irrational one.

Nodding subtly, the boy glanced up quickly to meet the counselor's dark eyes and then reflexively settled back into his previous position. He knew others often requested eye contact, but sometimes he found simply looking at other to be practically painful. He once read that grey colored eyes like his were more sensitive, but he was 90% sure that sensitivity only applies to light, not people.

"So, what do you prefer?"

The silence that followed provided an in-depth answer to the counselor's query, for the boy wished to be left alone, but she pursued the matter further.

"Your mother said you have become very _particular_ about names. She says you must _select_ a name in order for it to be acceptable." She paused carefully in case of a response. "What have you chosen for yourself?"

"Sherlock," he blurted out just as she finished speaking. His voice quality revealed no sign of anxious inner thoughts, but his posture remained very rigid.

"One of your middle names; unique for a very unique boy."

Sherlock's face grew hotter. He hated when people 'complimented' him. They only seemed to appreciate the qualities that he resented.

"Well…" the counselor stretched her voice as if to prolong the inevitable, "and you have also had a lot of unique experiences."

Sherlock could contain himself no longer; he broke into frantic sobs that sounded like he was drowning. He was drowning. _He_ was drowning.

* * *

In the hall outside of the counselor's office, Mycroft sat with his parents. Mycroft was an early teen with ruddy cheeks and auburn hair cut much shorter than his little brother's. He was a bit overweight but had lost several stones since the family had moved back to their previous home. His mother cited the availability of produce in the city, but both Mycroft, Sherlock, and their last three counselors had other ideas.

A loud sound pierced the air. The three Holmes instinctively knew the source and looked toward the counselor's closed door. Two arms reached around Mycroft, one from each parent. He winced at first but smiled after the comfort began to set in. There was something about being held that made him feel safe. Mycroft never felt truly connected to his parents, or to others for that matter. Feelings of detachment often caused him to daydream about being far away from others. Yet, the simple act of a hug from his parents allowed him to forget these fantasies.

Mycroft clenched his spiral notebook filled with speculation about his brother's state. He brought it so that he could write anything new that occurred to him and also to show the counselor when they were alone. No need to worry our parents, Mycroft thought, but a professional should surely be able to provide the cool-headedness and insight needed.

Sherlock's cries became more urgent and his brother held tightly to his notebook. Mycroft petted the cardboard cover gently like he would for his brother's hand if it was within reach. The door to the office opened and Mycroft quickly looked while holding breath.


	2. 2

Mycroft has taken a turn for the obsessive since Eurus left. He constantly worries over his brother and his own actions. Now he meets with the new counselor for the first time.

* * *

Sherlock emerged from the counselor's office with a tear-stained face and a glass of water. Mycroft judged (by the glazed eyes of the counselor) that only trivial progress toward improving or understanding Sherlock's psyche had taken place. This did not come as a surprise to Mycroft considering the last two counselors were also unable to reach any breakthroughs.

Seeing his brother standing there vulnerable and upset twisted Mycroft into terrible knots. Sherlock was not being counseled under these circumstances, he was being dissected. No one could ever understand Sherlock more than Mycroft himself. The two are of almost identical nature and nurture. Although different in many aspects they deem vital, they are very similar in what separates them from others.

"Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, I think it would be best if I meet with Mycroft now while Sherlock stays here with you. Does that sound okay?" Such calmness radiated from the counselor. Her words were dulcified too sweetly to engender a negative response. The Holmes all nodded slightly and shuffled around. Mycroft stood up unsteadily with his notebook in hand and waited for his brother to leave the doorway.

Sherlock took several steps toward his brother and briefly looked up to make eye contact.

"Brother mine…" Sherlock mumbled as he walked past his brother. He then meandered to his mother's side and leaned against her with an expression of defeat. She gently placed one arm around her son and held him a bit closer.

Mr. Holmes loudly sipped on a cup of mediocre, room temperature coffee that he had poured from the lobby more than an hour ago. He then deliberately arranged his cup on the corner, the very center of the corner but not touching any of the sides, of the table in front of him. After completing this task, he rose suddenly, as if broken free from a curse, and held out his arm to rest his hand on Mycroft's shoulder.

"Son," Mr. Holmes said with a questioning tone. Mycroft swiveled to face his father.

"Father," Mycroft responded with his characteristically deadpan and formulaic way with words.

"Be polite to Ms. Holland," whispered Mr. Holmes with the same quiet aggression used on young children misbehaving in a church.

"Of course, Father." Mycroft spoke with a superficial sweetness and then turned to the counselor, Ms. Holland, and grinned widely. Ms. Holland smiled back with a slight anxiety leaking from her countenance.

Mr. Holmes raised an eyebrow and shot a disbelieving glance at his wife, but decided not to pursue the subject further. He watched uneasily as his son entered the counselor's office.

* * *

"How do you feel today?" Ms. Holland scribbled some initial notes on her clipboard, noting the seemingly stiff family dynamics presented previously and the notebook that Mycroft was clutching in his lap.

"Fine," Mycroft chirped matter-of-factly with a bouncing nod. Ms. Holland nodded back reassuringly.

"What do you have there?" she asked while gesturing to his notebook.

"I brought this to share my notes with you, to receive your professional feedback." Mycroft held up the notebook in one hand and then returned it to his lap. He flipped the pages to a certain place.

"Ah, what kind of notes?" Ms. Holland spoke with genuine interest. His mother had not mentioned any note-taking behaviors.

"They are mainly on my brother... or, what I think might be beneficial." Mycroft spoke slowly and looked away nervously from Ms. Holland. He had become very protective of his brother, but speaking about this fact made him feel vulnerable for some reason. Shouldn't protecting others make one strong? Mycroft certainly did not feel strong right now.

"Things beneficial to what?" She tilted her head in confusion.

"To my brother's…" he looked around uncomfortably for a moment before thinking of an appropriate word. "...recovery." His heart began to quicken its pace.

"Well, I think it's very nice of you. You seem like a caring big brother." Ms. Holland smiled and wrote a lot more words on her clipboard.

Mycroft smiled back awkwardly with a forced expression. He did not like being referred to as 'nice' or 'caring' for he never intended to be nice or caring to Sherlock (or to anyone for that matter). He was simply trying to be correct. He wrote these notes because he knew that _he should_ and no other reason seemed adequate. If he did not attempt to help his brother, his brother may never truly be helped.


	3. 3

_Light is shed on Mycroft's relationship with himself, but the very topic makes him uneasy. Maybe Mycroft can be better understood through his observations about others?_

* * *

Mycroft fidgeted as he often did when he was left to sit in a place too long. Sitting across from Ms. Holland had filled him to the brim with a frustrated energy. In order to pacify himself, he smoothed the bottom of one thumb over the other thumbnail and then switched thumbs every seven movements. Why seven? Sherlock asked the same question just last week, but he received no real explanation. Sherlock did not press the matter considering he had only asked in order to assert his own belief that the number should actually be five, yet one cannot logically change a belief that is not based in logic. As this interaction resurfaced, Mycroft nervously began to wonder if five really was better than seven as he continued the soothing behavior while grimacing quietly.

"It's obvious you care very deeply for your brother's wellbeing, but how do you practice self-care?" The seemingly abrupt words startled Mycroft so that he quickly swung his fists down to the cushions beside him. Ms. Holland had asked a similar question just moments ago, but Mycroft had not heard or responded so she had asked once more with feeling. The feeling must have reached him.

"I hold myself to be vital above all," Mycroft murmured in a way that seemed he was not speaking to Ms. Holland but to himself. His words had the lilt of an apology and his silver eyes began to melt.

"So you hold yourself in high regard?" Ms. Holland's voice projected a great uncertainty for Mycroft's files had alluded to low levels of self-esteem. Mycroft's anxiety often caused him to be too critical of both his failures and successes so that he never felt accomplished.

"Oh no, I just know my quality of life depends on my actions that lead to my own future." Mycroft nodded a bit after speaking because he felt the words were so true.

"That is a very important thing to understand," Ms. Holland spoke with an audible touch of desperation, "but at your age, self-image is even more important."

"It doesn't matter what I think of myself as long as I can place myself where I need to be." The boy nodded once more, this time he was trying to convince himself of his own sincerity.

"But what about when you are there?"

"Well, what about it?" Mycroft's words were blurted out in one burst without pauses.

"You might want to end up with somebody you like in the end." Ms. Holland relaxed her speaking so that it might calm Mycroft or so that he might mimic her subconsciously.

"Maybe I never really thought of having company…" Mycroft's voice did not slow its pace. His face scrunched in disgust at the thought of having another person sharing his every moment.

"-No, I mean the company you always have: yourself." Miss Holland smiled while pivoting both pointer finger toward the boy sitting in front of her.

Mycroft returned to thumb twiddling. Ms. Holland felt as though she was pushing her luck as she remembered her experience with Sherlock not even thirty minutes ago. She thought that switching to a more comfortable topic would be best or she might risk having two patient meltdowns before lunch. Her eyes focused on the notebook in Mycroft's lap.

"So… what all have you written on your brother? Would like to share some of your notes with me?" Mycroft sat very upright and held his notebook up like a totem.

* * *

"As soon as Sherlock was able to walk, he was always trailing behind me. It was as though he was a duckling that had imprinted on its-" Mycroft said the next word much quieter and quicker as if he had cornered himself into a verbal corner, "-mother."

Ms. Holland smirked then swiftly returned to her ponderous expression.

"How was that? Did you enjoy being followed everywhere or was it an inconvenience?"

"Well, it was nice having somebody around to give their own critiques of my monologs. It sure made me look like a good big brother, but after a year or so I grew tired of having to explain everything to him." Mycroft considered these statements all factual and his voice held no hesitation.

"Young children can be annoyingly inquisitive," Ms. Holland replied with a wise glance.


End file.
